Boy Stuff

Call it a stereotype, but there’s so much “boy” going on in this house sometimes I think I might scream.

I never understood the big deal people make about laundry. People (with kids) are constantly complaining about the amount of laundry they do and the stains and the yadda yadda piles and piles of misery.

Jeff and I used to get by on a single load of laundry each week. ONE. Even when Colt was little, we would push it to two and I remember smugly sorting our two little piles of laundry and thinking how ridiculous the rest of the world is — five loads of laundry a week? More?! Crazy!

Me: Oh Buddy, what’s on your pants?
Colt: *blank stare*
Me: Did you spill something? Is that marker?
Colt: Oh. We had blueberries at school. They thought my pants were a slide.
Me: *blank stare*

It’s rare that a day goes by without my having to remind him that the rocks on the playground at school PREFER to REMAIN on the playground at school rather than smuggled home in his pockets. We have this conversation each afternoon when I pick him up, but inevitably, he slips a few past me each week and I find them as he puts on his jammies at night or when I’m doing the aforementioned laundry. You guys, some of these rocks are as big as his fist. And as best I can tell, he doesn’t have a specific plan for them. So I got him a jar. We already need a bigger jar.

Photo above: Our house is at the end of the street. I cut off our heads a little, but that’s Daddy and Mommy beside the house, and Colt is represented by the fireman-shaped bubble jar in the house. Right down the street is Mamaw and Papaw’s house. They are standing outside with Chip, and the smaller building next to their house is “Papaw’s Workshop”. Of course.

The jeans he’s wearing in that photo look totally normal at first glance. But if you look closely, you’ll notice a spot of red paint on the right knee. What’s awesome is these were one of two remaining hole-less pairs of jeans he had. ALL OF HIS JEANS HAVE HOLES IN THE KNEES. Big holes. Suspiciously, about the size necessary for a four-year-old boy’s curious hand. Oh look, there’s a tiny tear in the knee of my pants. I wonder if I could pull on it until it’s no longer a small, unassuming tear. I wonder if I could poke my finger into the hole. Will two fingers fit? Oh cool – my whole arm?!

“Mommy, my britches broke.”

Well, this certainly evolved into a big laundry-focused whine. Boys are so messy! They get dirty and rip holes in stuff! Love that, by the way. (Note to self: Search Pinterest for cute ways to patch holes in little boys’ pants.)

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